


At the Seams

by Hopetohell



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Light Angst, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: I’ve got you.Sometimes Mike needs to be taken out of his own head.
Relationships: Mike (Hellraiser)/Reader
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

He wants to try it because he saw it in a porno once. Because of _course_ that’s why; because he’s grieving and he’s not quite sober and every little light that used to shine in him is dimming. Because you’ll say yes, you’ll always say yes. Because sooner or later he would’ve asked for it anyway, in that sweet and fumbling way he has when he thinks you might deny him. 

This, though, this you could never say no to. You show him the harness, show him the dildo and it’s purple, of course it’s purple; he asked for it, he wants it, _Jesus,_ he turns it over and over in his hands and he stares because even though it’s on the smaller side (far smaller than him, fuck, that beast he’s packing needs _preparation_ every time you take it), it’s still the biggest thing he’s ever had and 

_All of it? Fuck. Okay. Okay._ And now that it’s happening he drops down sweet and easy into sensation; he settles back in the bed already reaching for that place beyond thought, beyond memory, beyond the wisps of dreams that follow him when he wakes. 

_Mike. Hey. Hey. Stay with me_ and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to think about any of it but _I need to know you’re with me_ and he nods, he pulls his focus sharply onto you, onto the wet slide of your fingers inside him. 

One. Slow and easy, slick; he’s holding his own knee up, open and exposed as he fists his cock with his free hand, as he watches like you’re about to impart some great secret. 

Two. As the stretch makes itself known, as you scissor your fingers and slop lube everywhere and he hisses as it coats his insides and _fuck_ that’s cold, as you reach for something and find it, that _something_ that makes his eyes snap to yours, that makes his mouth drop open to let a gasping wondering _fuck_ escape. 

Three. He’s breathing out quiet little unhs with every press and twitch and curl of your fingers, with the stretch and the cold wetness that you keep adding ( _never enough lube, Mike, god, I’m not gonna hurt you. Not like this)_ and you can tell he wishes you would make it hurt, just a little. You really ought to talk about that but he’s swallowing you up so well like he was

_Born to do this, born to take my cock, Jesus, Mike, let me in, I—_

as you’re strapping in, as you’re spreading lube over your length, purple and skin-soft and cool when it slips into him slowly, slowly, bit by bit, stealing the heat from his body to become warm like flesh. And he’s biting his lip red, focused so completely on the feel of you pressing into him, but the tension is fading from between his brows as he takes and takes and takes, his cock smearing precum through the hair on his belly. 

_Just you and me_ as he’s holding himself open, as light shines through his cracks, as you reach to cup your hand around his cheek and he turns toward it with a whine. _I’ve got you. It’s alright. Just let go._ And he does: you hit that spot just right and he makes a sound like he’s dying. Orgasm takes him by surprise, sudden like a lightning strike, leaving him breathless. 

And he’s reaching for you, trying to drag you up to get his mouth on your throbbing wet cunt because _supposed to_ turned into _want to_ became _need to_ a long time ago. But 

_this isn’t about me, let me give you this, there’ll be time later_ and yeah, okay, his mouth is working soundlessly around words he doesn’t have, around thanks and strange little prayers, around the last little dregs of his nightmare as it’s finally slipping away. 

And when you return from cleanup, from putting all your toys to rights, it’s to find him with that languid fucked-out smile, the one that makes of him a fallen angel as he sprawls in the sheets. He is transcendent here, and he is sweet; when you sink down beside him the arm he drapes over your shoulders is warm and strong. He sinks into sleep beside you, and for a little while he has no dreams.


	2. Song for the New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is always hard on Mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pegging, take 2.

And in the end, the new year comes like it does every year. Mike finds himself tethered in your bed because when the weather turns he spends more and more time there, buried deep in quilts, down pillows shoved under him to keep his ass in the air, to keep him open for you, at just the right angle to dismantle his mind completely.

And he wants it, _god,_ how he needs it; he loves to fuck

(anywhere, any time, it seems like, but he likes it here best, with the fairy lights wound around your headboard to remind him of better times)

but when winter comes, so does the strangeness, the old memory and the deep ache in his hands, broken when he tried to punch his way out of a pine box. And there's no heat once again, with the ice storm raging outside; he needs this so badly, needs it like breathing, but he shivers against the cold and you do too. It's a shuffling dance under the covers, keeping body heat in even as you're driving moans from him while he writhes on your silicone cock, as he's yanking down and leaving livid bracelets on his wrists under the cuffs. The blankets slip and you curse, pulling them back up and over the both of you; it's warm here in your little cocoon, warm with Mike under your hands, sighing in pleasure as you dig your thumbs into his ribs.

His chest is all littered with bruises; he craves it, craves the pain, and if you'll only give him pleasure when you have his ass

( _I'm sorry. I can't. I can't hurt you in that way. I'll bruise you, I'll cut you, whatever you need to let your demons out, but please don't ask that of me_ )

you'll cover his skin with a litany of pain; you'll write in bruises those words he whispered to you in the days after, when he'd huddled hollow-eyed on your couch, lost in the memory of what never should have happened.

And this is good; you know, by now, how to angle yourself just so in order to hit his sweet spot; if his hands were free he'd be gripping hard at the leather harness, trying to pull you deeper and _relax, Mike. I know what I'm doing. All you have to do is take it_ but his hands aren't free; he needs to feel totally in your hands, in your control. And so you'd cuffed him, real cuffs with the key on a chain around your neck; he tests and pulls and doesn't ask to stop. He doesn't ask for anything anymore, not with the way he's pulled under so completely. 

This is why you take him face to face: so you can see the lines slip from his face when he drops over the edge and lets his conscious mind go. And there he is again, your sweet Mike, mouth open, panting breaths interrupted now and then by weak grunts when you change the angle. And when he comes you pet him through it; he is sticky and sweaty and it is far too cold to run a bath or even let him out from under the covers in this state, so this is what you do. 

You get the wet towels, because if nothing else you at least have hot water. You free his hands from their cuffs and wash the raw places so gently; he will wear these bruises with pleasure, pressing them to remind him of this night, of this time when his mind fled and left him soft and empty. But for now he lets his arms drift down beside his head on the pillow; he is nearly sleeping now, but rises from his fog long enough to make little needy sounds when you move to clean come from his belly and lube from his ass. It's tender even with all your care, with all the soft and careful preparation that'd had him whining.

( _Please, please, let it out, I can feel it under my skin, please I need it gone)_

__And he is safe here; he is aching in the best way as you rub ointment so carefully into all his tender places. He is safe with all his demons driven out, with the satisfying ache that pulses deep within him, rippling deeply through him in time with his heartbeat. The bruises on his chest are a talisman against nightmares; they center on his sternum and radiate out over his ribs and until they fade he will sleep a little better.

But now, deep in the dream that follows this steady dismantling of his mind, Mike sighs and just looks so _young;_ he looks like you remember, relaxed, like at any moment he will wake with a stretch and a smile and a _hey. Morning. Still no power? Guess we'd better spend the day in bed again._

And you shiver to the bathroom to wash your toys; you shiver back to bed and burrow under the blankets, bumping ankles with Mike, head under the covers so you can watch him as you bring yourself off by moonlight, even if it's muted and diffused by layers and layers of blankets. But when you look at him he's looking back, sleepily interested, petting softly at his cock while he watches you. _Rest,_ you whisper, and he shakes his head, drawing himself up from the fog long enough to smile a little.

_Wanna watch you._ And so he does; he’s already halfway into his dream but his eyes are fixed on yours, sleepy and half-shut. When he reaches out it’s with a hesitance that says _are you sure this is allowed;_ when he brushes his fingers across your cheek it’s a whisper, the barest hint of softness that he’s held so tightly to all this time. 

And when you draw his hand down to join with yours it’s slow and soft; he covers your fingers with his and strokes so gently that when orgasm hits it’s not a storm or a lightning strike; it’s a soft roll of thunder. It’s a sigh, a smell of distant rain. And Mike feels it, filtered through his flesh; he sighs and shuts his eyes and goes to sleep.


End file.
